


Hostile and Calculated

by Rrrowr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s07e02 Hello Cruel World, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 drabble set that covers the Leviathan taking over Castiel and then Castiel's return from possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hostile and Calculated

**Author's Note:**

> These were written just after 7.02 aired, so obviously out of date now.

I.

From the moment they spread themselves out through the blood and sinew of this vessel, Leviathan feels happiness — free at last, after so many years of being locked away. Considering how cramped and tight it had been before, with the millions of other souls packed in alongside them, Castiel is positively roomy now. There’s more than enough space in this slimy, little body for all of them to slot into place, though it’s a damn shame that they can’t just split him into a piece for each of them. Still, even if Castiel does only have one head to his one body, working together is not something with which Leviathan is unfamiliar.

It’s a rare pleasure indeed to have Dean Winchester’s horrified face turn upon them. It’s been so long since humans regarded them with rightful terror. Leviathan simply has to yank Dean closer and prod the wound so the moment will forever be burned into his memory.

“Cas? He’s gone. He’s—” Leviathan shrugs their shoulders helplessly. “He’s dead.”

The brilliant shine of pain that blossoms in Dean Winchester’s eyes is nothing compared to the screams they used to inspire, but for now that can wait. They’ve got nothing but time. Simultaneously torturing Castiel for holding them back and rewarding him for ultimately being the one that set them free — well, it’s all in a day’s work.

_Oh, look at him, Castiel. He is so lost without you_ , Leviathan thinks as they look upon Dean, who is staring wide-eyed at them from where he is crumpled against the blood-stained aluminum of a lab table.

Within, the glimmer of Castiel’s grace flutters against Leviathan’s shadows and remains insufferably difficult to snuff out. 

_We’re going to kill him_ , Leviathan sing-songs gleefully at Castiel — just to feel that wing-beat of panic. Leviathan grins — lips peeling back from teeth that are not razor-sharp but are, apparently, still as effective — and says, “Now,” ( _Relax_ ) “this is going to be so much fun.”

 

II.

The truth is this: the Leviathan are currently only five, but such is their power that the angel’s vessel — threadbare and fragile from the souls — simply cannot contain them.

They look upon their vessel’s hand, conscious of how their power pushes and claws at the walls, and wonder if it would hold long enough for them to deliver some payback to these mortal fools that thought to trap them. In the old days, it took God Himself to thrust them behind the bars of Purgatory; Leviathan could not let these humans pass undisturbed for their daring. However, as elated as they are to finally be on Earth again, they need to set their priorities, and this vessel they wear — _Jimmy Novak_ — is a woefully inadequate mask for their strength. Already, they're leaking through the cracks, trying to relieve the pressure where they can, but it is not enough. They would need to divide or perish.

“How many of you ass clowns are in there?” asks Dean. “Hundred? More?”

Despite the bravado, Dean Winchester’s voice has a tremor of fear — nothing like it was but a minute ago. They have Castiel’s thousands of years of knowledge — many of which have to do with the Winchesters — and his calculated inquiry is not unexpected. Considering their strength, it's clear that he expects to be dealing with a large number of them. This pleases Leviathan, but the vessel no longer cooperates properly to express it. It does, in fact, fracture further with their effort, and their power seeps out of them more profusely. They sway and fight to smother their power into the slender confines of their vessel. They need room to spread. This single vessel is not enough, and frankly, Castiel is like an itch underneath the breastbone, breaking into their thoughts with his own. Irritating and ever-present.

“Your vessel’s gonna explode, ain’t it? Wouldn’t do anything too strenuous. In fact, I’d call it a day and head on home.”

Dean Winchester sounds elated — hopeful. _Arrogant, as always, but with more faith than before._

It's supremely irritating that he's right about their vessel, and Leviathan manages to turn, leveling a black stare in his direction. Seeing his half-smile crumple almost makes up for his audacity.

“We’ll be back,” they promise, while they stretch their senses out, searching for an appropriate medium. “For you.”

Dean’s upturned face, lifted in challenge, might be the last they see of him for a while. They turn from him, shuffling toward their new goal, and decide that the wait would be worth it. Let Dean Winchester — _and Sam and Bobby, the finest examples of Mankind I have ever had the privilege of standing beside_ — gather his forces.

Dean knows nothing of what he faces now, and they know everything about him.

_He will defeat you all_ , thinks Castiel quite fiercely as they approach the water.

Leviathan does not smile. They merely stumble deeper into the lake. _Let him try._

 

III.

They keep him in what remains of the panic room with the understanding that, if the person lying within its iron walls is Leviathan instead of Castiel, there is very little any of them can do to keep him there.

Dean watches him through the little window in the doorway. His face is pale and his injuries bleed crimson, which is hopeful, but he’s been still for many hours now. Unconscious, Bobby says, and if they were lucky, he might stay that way rather than risk the big bad rising again. Dean knows that, when he sees Castiel’s mouth twitch into an unhappy line, he shouldn’t feel his throat tighten hopefully around the angel’s name. He should call for Bobby right now to have him on the alert.

Instead, Dean’s rooted to this spot, watching raptly as Castiel’s mouth parts for a sharp inhale, as his lashes flutter in the warm light — as he squints and slowly pushes himself to elbow and then to standing.

There’s a moment where Dean is uncertain, where he thinks that maybe Leviathan is still in there somewhere. Castiel stands and looks down at himself with an expression that is just shy of amused. He holds out his hand and as he flips it to view the palm, he laughs a little. It’s a distressing echo of how the Leviathan were when they first emerged, and for an instant, Dean finally thinks of calling for Bobby or Sam.

It passes when Castiel turns to look at his surroundings and stops.

Dean can’t see his face from here, but the slump of Castiel’s shoulders are achingly familiar and his steps, completely unlike Leviathan’s forceful swagger. Castiel reaches out and Dean presses close to the door’s tiny window to see what he’s going for.

The trench coat — folded and blood stained, still — wrinkles under the clasp of Castiel’s fingers. For the longest time, they remain like that, with Dean watching Castiel touch the coat, and Dean grits his teeth, stubbornly silent as he waits to see what happens.

When Castiel lifts the coat up, his body hides most of it from Dean’s eyes. That’s okay, though; Dean’s unfolded and refolded that coat enough times that he knows its details by heart. For months now, its threads and stains and tears have been the only picture he’s had left of the one that should’ve been there instead.

It takes a few seconds. Dean almost can’t believe his eyes, but sure enough, Castiel is covering up the dark lines of his suit with the trench coat, shoving his arms into the sleeves one at a time and tugging the collar to his neck. When he turns back, his eyes are downcast; his head, bowed; and when Dean says, “Cas,” in an awed rasp as he yanks open the door, Castiel looks up with a tiny smile.

“Hello, Dean."


End file.
